Venezuela – Page 28 – The Pull Of The Land

Ikeya-Seki, 1965

December 10, 2019December 10, 2019 Richard Barnes

I did not remember anyone talking about waking us up at, what? 2 A. M.? 4 A. M.?

But there was my father, shaking me awake hours before dawn on a weekday morning.

In my torpor I figured we were going fishing, but the little voice in the back insisted and persisted in affirming that today was a school day and it would be highly unlikely for him to encourage us to play hooky.

By the time I was on my feet, shuffling to the living room, I saw that my mother had already awakened my sisters, who, equally perplexed, waited for me in the living room. We were too sleepy to speak or even grumble. The house was silent.

Our parents led us through the long kitchen and someone drowsily asked whether the Flor de La Medianoche (Midnight Flower) was blooming that night. A most reasonable question, which would unlock tonight’s mystery.

However, there was a difference: trumpets usually (always?) preceded the Flor de La Medianoche spectacle. Throughout the day, the talk around the camp, among children as well as adults, would reflect the excited anticipation of getting up at midnight to witness the event. We’d go to bed knowing that we’d be awakened to go outside and gawk at this magnificent, aromatic flower which buds at midnight. Sometimes, at that hour, we’d receive visitors who did not cultivate it but who enjoyed its beauty and would come over to celebrate with us. Photos would be taken. Other families around the camp who cultivated the flower, would do likewise.

The flower not only blooms at midnight, but it also begins to die almost immediately. As I recall, this was a biannual occurrence.

But tonight was different. Too quiet, for one thing. No excited talk the previous day, for another. It was as if the adults had thought about engaging in whatever it was that we were about to do, but did not commit, given the nuttiness of the hour.

My father held the kitchen door open and we all, no longer shuffling, marched out to the carport as he ordered us to get in the car. In our pajamas? Really?

Mother and father said nothing or very little or very quietly or I was too sleepy to capture any conversation. We three children (at the time) just sat in the back seat as we rode along the familiar camp road out, past the club grounds, and to the alcabala (security gate) whose guard dutifully opened for us.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I recall is coming to Rankin Hill, a residential section of the labor camp (otro campo) with a clearing at the edge, which afforded an expansive overlook. As my father sought a space to park, we saw many (many!) people, from both camps, gathered there. Through the windshield we beheld the most spectacular constellation of lights, with a brightness that surpassed the moon’s, and an apparent proximity which felt as if we could reach out, just beyond the hill, and grab a handful of stars.

We walked, hurriedly, to the clearing; everyone knew everyone and greetings were continuously exchanged, but always the gaze, the commentary, the wonderment was towards the spectacle displayed against the tropical night sky. The brightness was powerfully magnetic, like a consuming fire which doesn’t allow you to look away.

“Ikeya-Seki”, someone said. What? “Ikeya-Seki!” And what in the world is an Ikeya-Seki? A new constellation appearing next to the earth?

It was a magnificent comet, discovered by Japanese scientists in 1965, just a month or so before it became visible to the naked eye as it swept within 500,000 miles of the sun. This was brighter than Halley’s. I had seen photos of Halley’s. I had read about Halley’s. Halley’s was a good friend of mine. And this was way more impressive than Halley’s.

Ikeya-Seki was confirmed to have been the brightest comet of the 20th century; indeed, of the past one-thousand years. Some called it “The Great Comet”.

Scientists tell us it was 10 times brighter than the full moon. From a child’s perspective, it seemed like another sun, only broken into countless, infinitesimal pieces, with a 75 million-mile long tail that looked like a curtain majestically splayed across a massive night stage. From Rankin Hill, the comet shot downwards, with a tail stretching up into limitless space. We looked almost straight up, as if standing at the foot of the Empire State Building and looking up to try to see the observatory deck. The tail seemed to “hang” down from infinity, and lowering our gaze to behold it horizontally, we could see its width extending across, and its length dropping behind the jungle horizon. To say it dominated the sky would be the understatement of the ages.

Ikeya-Seki continued to own the sky throughout the month of November, 1965.

Seems that someone from the labor camp had called our parents and encouraged them to come, and to bring us along, as the sight was one for a lifetime.

And that it was.

I had never seen anything like it; nor have I since.

It’s due to return in about 1,000 years.

Photo taken in southern California in late October, 1965. This is not the view I had in southeastern Venezuela, but unfortunately I cannot find photos taken in the vicinity of my childhood. Maybe someone took a photo, but I’ve had no success thus far in
tracking it down.

My sisters enjoying the Midnight Flower in our El Pao home, circa 1967

Thankfulness, Data, and Commentary

November 15, 2019November 15, 2019 Richard Barnes

Thankfulness

From a column by Scott Johnson on his friend, the late Peter Collier:

“Peter reflected long and deeply on his days as a radical. My favorite of these reflections is his essay ‘Coming Home,’ in Second Thoughts: Former Radicals Look Back at the Sixties.

“In this essay Peter recalled the trip he took with this laconic father to South Dakota, where his father had been born, while his father was dying. During one long stretch of Nevada highway, his father announced: ‘You know, I’m glad I was born a South Dakotan and an American. I’m glad I saw the beginning of the twentieth century. I’m glad I lived through the Depression and the War. I think these things made me a stronger person. I’m glad I came to California, because I met your mother there. I’m glad we had you for a son.’

“Peter commented: ‘It was the longest speech I’d ever heard him make…It was a moment of acceptance and affirmation by someone whose life had often been disfigured by hard work and responsibility and for whom words had never come easily. What he said and how he said it was so different from the chic bitterness and facile nihilism of my radical friends that I was shaken. It was like hearing speech, real and authentic speech, for the first time in years.'”

I was drawn to Mr. Johnson’s column because I had recently thanked God for having been born in Venezuela, for my Venezuelan-citizen mother and American-citizen father, for having worked in Puerto Rico, where I met my wife, and for the children He had blessed us with. A spirit of thankfulness had stirred within me and I can only wish for that to occur more frequently.

Recently a dear aunt passed away in Venezuela. She was utterly selfless, having sacrificed to enable her grandson to emigrate to the United States, knowing she would never see him again on this earth. I am glad I knew her and that I knew her mother. And that such a people still pull me to imitate that which is good.

Data

The data speaks for itself: #Socialism destroys wealth pic.twitter.com/uiVjgUK0sL
— Prof. Steve Hanke (@steve_hanke) November 10, 2019

Commentary

As a reminder, for the most part, this blog leaves current events and commentary to other mediums, which are plentiful. However, every once in a while, we will publish or report or link to a commentary or report on the current situation in Venezuela. The link below is one of a series penned by Christian K. Caruzo, born in Venezuela, and witness to its deterioration.

https://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2019/10/13/my-socialist-hell-20-years-of-decay-in-venezuela/

Venezuela then and now

An Empire Named San Tomé

November 8, 2019November 8, 2019 Richard Barnes

I am unable to track down the author of the below. It was an email which found its way to me.

Having read it several times I can attest to his description of life in an American camp, in this case, a petroleum camp, Mene Grande, a Gulf Oil subsidiary. Refer to my prior post, “Memories of San Tomé” (November 2, 2019) for more detail.

The email was written in Spanish by Vinicio Guerrero Méndez, whom I’ve done my best to track down, but with no success. Since his email was clearly sent as a “blast”, I am confident he would be pleased with my translating and sharing it here.

As you read, you will become aware of his subtle (or maybe not so subtle) narration which, in effect, builds a stupendous contrast with life in Venezuela today, where scarcity is the everyday experience of the majority, especially the poor.

Many are the souls alive in Venezuela (or in exile) today who recall better times.

Tuesday, 21 October, 2014.

In 1930, long before I was born, Juan Vicente Gómez [for more on Gómez, see my July 22, 2019 post, “Apple Foot: A Road Trip to Mérida”] had paid off all foreign debt, as a posthumous homage to Simón Bolivar on the centenary of his death. But he cared not for the education of his people, he outlawed all opposition political parties, and he severely punished delinquency, while amassing a fortune of more than 155 million Bolivars.

When I was born in the hospital of San Tomé (a petroleum camp), General Marcos Pérez Jiménez governed the destinies of our country where he had established a political dictatorship, but his mandate was characterized by the growth of the petroleum industry via concessions to American [U.S.A.] companies, which opened the way for contractors, American and Venezuelan, which in turn abundantly increased resources and countless job placements to the residents of nearby villages, towns, and scattered populations. Great and grand public works were realized, and also corruption. He too left no foreign debt.

The process of my birth cost three Reals (“tres reales”, about 30 Venezuelan cents) and this was discounted from my father’s pay up to six pay periods, with no interest. Medicines were available in abundance and were prescribed to us at no charge.

What’s so strange is that even former president Jaime Lusinchi worked there. [Dr. Lusinchi was president in the 1980’s. He was socialistic and Venezuela continued her descent during his tenure. Lusinchi knew better.]

The doctors were honorable and totally dedicated to their profession: men such as Dr. Tulio Briceño Mass who was my godfather and eventually became the Director of Dermatology at the Vargas Hospital in Caracas.

As far back as I can remember, my father’s car ran on gasoline assigned by the company, even though my father was a laborer. His assigned car was changed for a new one every three years. Should any mechanical fault have arisen, he would take it to the “Motor Pull” [pool] for repair and while they worked on it, the company would assign him a used car replacement. Repairs rarely took a week, depending on the fault. We did not pay for fuel, which would be provided merely on the basis of my father’s signature.

Also, included with his vehicle, was a complete toolbox of the brand “Snap-On”.

As far as living, the camp was divided into two sectors: North Camp and South Camp. In the South Camp lived technicians and laborers and in the North Camp lived the Americans and any Venezuelan with a professional degree or who, over time, acquired a responsible position. In other words “the chiefs”.

In the South Camp, the living quarters were all the same. Of course, the North Camp’s quarters were more commodious and nicer-looking. But we did not lack any services such as gas, water, electricity, phone, etc. We either paid nothing for these, or, if we did pay, it was a token amount.

The same applied to schooling: it was without cost, and so were the books and the transportation. My mother made our uniforms, or dusters, as we used to call them.

We studied eight hours per day and we also took music classes so as to not forget our national hymn nor the Alma Llanera. We had religious conferences at least once per week and they invited us to mass on Sundays.

As for food, we were serviced by a large commissary which was well stocked with all the basics and more. I remember we would buy various brands of milk: Rosemary, Klim, and whatever other brand of the thousands stocked there. Without exaggeration, we’d sometimes exit the commissary with two full cartloads of goods.

My father received a salary as well as regular bonuses and even an additional sum in January, called, if I remember correctly, “liquids”. This was a payment to help employees who might have overextended themselves during the Christmas season. With these “liquids” funds, my mother would take us to Curazao every other year or so to buy clothing made by the Empire.

We had excellent recreational and sporting sites all over, as in Medina Park, etc.

In Carnival our celebrations gained the reputation of being the best in Venezuela and were known as The Black Gold Carnival.

On Easter Week we all went to Mass and we rejoiced when father Arias would rebuke us.

Christmas was a portent because the departments would strive to be the best when it was their turn to host mass that day. They gave away candy, “pastelitos,” firecrackers, fireworks, and innumerable gifts. There was always money for Santa Claus or the Child Jesus (by the way, I was 15 when I learned that both were my parents).

And then, as if the above were not enough, on the 6th of January, the Magi made their appearance.

I asked for the moon in my letters to Child Jesus: whether pistols, or “chácaras” [noisy toys]. I could not begin to imagine how there were so many toys at such low prices in that toy store that was at the other side of the commissary.

My father was sent to Mexico for a training course, all expenses paid. He brought me a beautiful Longines watch as a souvenir. In these days, should I use the watch, they’d call me “El mocho.” [dude; dandy; not a compliment today].

When we’d visit the baseball stadium, Francisco Pinto, “Owl Face”, was the Sporting Section boss and neither teams nor uniforms were ever lacking when celebrations took place. Even Enzo Hernandez (may he rest in peace) hit a homer and I said, this guy is going to be a major leaguer [he played for the San Diego Padres in the 1970’s].

As you can see, it was very hard living with those American imperialists.

Note: If a resident of that era can add or correct something in the above, I would be grateful.

This plaque commemorates the beginnings of the Venezuela oil exploration in 1914, a century before Mr. Guererro’s email. The site of the above photo is on the coast of Lake Maracaibo and Mene Grande (Gulf Oil) also had massive investments there. It is now a scene of desolation.

Alma Llanera is one of the few “typical” songs or pieces of music that are known throughout the world. I heard it played in Saudi Arabia (Khobar). It is a landmark song, whose composition coincides with the beginnings of oil exploration in Venezuela: 1914. To begin to appreciate Venezuela, you might parcel out two minutes and see the video.

Memories of San Tomé

November 2, 2019November 2, 2019 Richard Barnes

The video posted below is 15 minutes, and if you are interested in an American’s reflections about camp life in Venezuela, you’ll appreciate it. You will find Mr. Howland’s commentary low key but compelling. He reminds me much of that generation of men I grew up with.

The camp was built by the Mene Grande Oil Company, a subsidiary of the Gulf Oil Company. It was located near the town of El Tigre, about 60 miles north of Ciudad Bolivar which lies on the Orinoco River, and about 120 miles northwest of San Félix, which is also also on the Orinoco, only further east. It was about 160 miles northwest of El Pao.

He mentions the South Camp. In Mene Grande the North Camp was the “staff” camp, mostly populated by Americans in its early history. The South Camp was the labor camp. But both were well run and fondly remembered by its inhabitants.

This was “nationalized” in 1975 along with the rest of the oil and iron ore industries.

Some comments below the video say much:

“I was born in Caripito Monagas State in January 1959 and 6 months after being born we arrived in San Tomé where I grew up. Many are the good memories of a town that I consider was an example of society. I thank Mr. Howland for that beautiful video [which goes back over] 80 years of existence.” [emphasis mine]

“Hello Mr. Howland. Your videos bring back many wonderful memories. I lived with my parents in El Tigrito and graduated from San Tomé Staff School in 1953. I saved a little boy’s life in the club pool for which Mene Grande gave me a watch when I graduated.”

“Jake — amazing video. As the Venezuelans would say, it was “muy emocionante” to see such old footage of our beloved camp.”

I have an email that was forwarded to me and am hoping to receive permission to post it. Meanwhile, I’ll only post the mildly sardonic conclusion:

“As you can see, it was very difficult living with those American imperialists.”

To learn just a tad of the massive American investment in Venezuela and a time when conservative outlooks and mores somewhat ruled the day, you might want to parcel out the 15 minutes it takes to watch

Some “ground level” photos of areas alluded to in the film (am a bit surprised at the dearth of readily available photos, as this was well-known site):

Evocation

October 8, 2019October 8, 2019 Richard Barnes

Frank Reaugh painted a life he loved but a life that was already gone by the time he memorialized it. He painted from sketches he had drawn as a young man. He loved the big skies, the eternal prairies, the longhorn cattle, and the cowhands. He lovingly recreated these as best he could in paintings which are evocative and, to me at least, deeply moving.

Charles Goodnight was a giant of a pioneer. Far more exciting than the Rock Hudson and James Dean characters in Giant, the 1956 smash movie hit about early 20th-century Texas. And, of course, Mr. Goodnight and his friend, Oliver Loving, the characters who were fictionalized in Larry McMurtry’s novel, Lonesome Dove, were not filthy-mouthed but were much more colorful than those depicted in the novel and subsequent smash TV mini-series. And, yes, it is true that Goodnight returned his friend’s body back to Texas for burial in Weatherford, as in the novel.

At the age of 9 he rode bareback behind his parents’ covered wagon. At 14 he was hunting with the Caddo Indians beyond the frontier. At 25, he scouted for the Texas Rangers in the war with the Comanches and Kiowas. He preserved the Buffalo; founded a college; encouraged the settlement of the plains, and “led a long fight for law and order.” He died in 1929.

Both men, and much more, are featured in the Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum in Canyon, Texas, about a twenty-minute drive south of Amarillo. If you are in the area, you might check it out if you have an afternoon to spare.

My father was born twelve years before Mr. Goodnight passed away and, looking back, I realize I knew men who grew up during that generation. I recall sitting at the El Pao bar or in the pocket billiards area in the presence of men now long gone. One, Mr. Marley, a Texan, would tease me saying he had more hair than my father. Mr. Marley was completely bald (naturally, that is; it was an era when shaved heads were not “in”). That would trigger me in defense of my father (in an era when triggers were something on guns). Mr. Marley would howl with laughter, and I would complain to my father, who would also be laughing. I can still see him walking from the club to the bachelor quarters, wearing his ten-gallon hat, the only one in the camp with such accoutrement. Mr. Marley was not a young man, but his expertise was in setting up mining camps and that was in great demand in that era.

I can see men like Mr. Marley growing up in the presence of men like Mr. Goodnight. Men of great stamina, good humor, and sterling character.

And, like Frank Reaugh, I am blessed to have the ability to remember a life that is no longer, but that can be evoked and which has lessons for us today, I believe.

A childhood friend met me in Caracas about fifteen years ago and in catching up on our respective lives, I spoke about Texas and it’s heritage of independence. My friend laughed, “Texas is just like [the Venezuelan western state] Zulia!”

Of course! There are some similarities between Texas and the land of my birth. Both are rugged lands with stark beauty, tempting landscapes, and beguiling skies. And, like Texas, Venezuela is an enchanting land but if you are careless, if you take things for granted, if you treat it as a sandlot or a plaything, it can be fatal.

Up to that conversation, I had seen great similarities between Kalamazoo, Michigan, and El Pao, the place of my birth. The friendliness and easy hospitality of southwest Michigan still enchants me, even after thirty years, and allows for easy and favorable comparison to the mining town of my childhood, including the fact that I made lifelong friends in both places. And the ruggedness of Texas (which, by the way, also characterizes the Michigan Upper Peninsula) allows for easy and favorable comparison to the striking landscape of Venezuela.